Page 2 of The Revenge Game
He’s still the best-looking person I’ve seen in real life.
Dammit. This was not in the revenge algorithm. Premature balding that reveals a head shaped like a misshapen light bulb would have been the perfect cosmic punchline. But no. Apparently, the universe has decided that my emotional closure needs to come with a side of inconvenient attraction.
I look away, trying to compose myself as adrenaline races through me. I can’t let myself get distracted by Justin’s appearance.
This is it. This is my chance to get some small measure of payback for those high school years.
My mind races through my scripted scenario, highlighting the differences between the way I’ve imagined this happening and my current reality.
First, I’m in an old-school English pub, so they don’t actually serve cocktails. Which means red wine is probably my best option. But the curvature of a red wine glass might not allow for optimal splatter.
Second, I’m here alone. I’ve always imagined facing Justin Morris down with a posse of cool, hip friends standing at my shoulder, giving derisive smirks at his jock genericness.
Because that’s all he is, I’ve realized over the years. A generic jock. Nothing special. He isn’t the savior of his planet like Superman. He isn’t Luke Skywalker, Neo, Frodo, or even Captain America.
He is just a jock.
It was like an ecological niche thing. He slotted into place in my life as my tormentor because that was what was expected. Captain of the football team and class president bullies the captain of the chess club about his sexuality. It was basically written somewhere in stone, part of the commandments laid down by the gods of American high schools.
But it’s hard to dismiss Justin for his genericness now, seeing him surrounded by a laughing crowd of friends when I’m standing here alone because I’ve been too busy building a tech empire to develop a revenge entourage.
That’s the problem with reality. It very seldom matches the perfection of fantasy. My revenge scenarios never accounted for the possibility that he might have a life that doesn’t revolve around waiting for me to confront him or that I might feel this odd pang of something suspiciously like envy mixed with my righteous anger.
But if I’ve learned anything in my career as a tech entrepreneur, sometimes you’ve got to make do with the resources available.
So, I order a red wine with a shaky voice.
When the bartender hands me the glass, doubt surges inside me. Do I really want to throw this at Justin?
I should be a bigger person than someone who resorts to violence via fermented grapes, right? Besides, the bartender seems nice. She doesn’t deserve to clean up the aftermath of my unresolved high school trauma. And knowing my terrible aim, I’d miss Justin entirely and hit some innocent bystander with a lawyer on speed dial.
Okay, maybe I’ll just go for confronting him verbally.
I wrap my fingers around the glass stem because it’s always good to have a backup.
When I turn to look at Justin, I discover he’s moved away from his group of friends and is cutting through the crowd, heading in my direction.
My heart leaps to my throat.
I only have to move a few steps to put myself directly on his path to the restroom. I force my trembling legs to cooperate, my pulse thundering in my ears so loudly I’m surprised the whole pub can’t hear it.
I can’t believe how much Justin’s presence affects me. Even after ten years, a tech empire, and three commas in my bank balance, my body still reacts to Justin Morris like I’m that scared kid hiding in the computer lab during lunch period.
I exhale a ragged breath and square my shoulders. I can do this. I’m doing this for sixteen-year-old Andrew, who used to practice comebacks in front of my mirror every night, rehearsing words I never found the courage to say aloud. For the Andrew who spent prom night coding alone in my bedroom, telling myself that one day, things would be different.
As Justin approaches, his eyes meet mine.
He looks at me, and it’s a proper look, not a glance that moves past quickly but an actual, verified look.
Stomach churning, my hand shaking slightly as I clutch my wine glass, I wait for it. Maybe a bit of confusion at first because we’re a long way from home, and I’m out of context.
But then I imagine the confusion will morph into shock when he slots me into the correct place in the jigsaw of his life, and then maybe some shame when he recalls some of our past interactions.
Surely, surely, there will be some shame.
Please let there be shame.
But when I look into his ocean-colored eyes, they hold indifference, nothing more.
